The Midnight Scare and the Life Lesson
The quiet after midnight is usually reserved for contemplating poor life choices or finally finishing a bag of chips. Instead, mine was shattered by my oldest son and five terrifying words: “Mom, I can’t breathe.”

I didn’t think. I didn’t reach for my phone, and I didn’t freeze up like I normally do in panic mode. I achieved a Gold Medal in the “Emergency Athleisure 100-Meter Dash” for “dressed and driving”—a blistering 45 seconds—all while wearing a gray, emotionally supportive sweat suit that instantly tells the world: “I’ve given up on pants and public accountability.” That thing was a vintage gray artifact, now so structurally entrenched with four years of Netflix crumbs that washing it would be considered structural vandalism, but it was my emergency uniform. We were halfway to the hospital before I remembered to check if I had keys, but hey, fear is the best fuel.

The ER waiting room is where hope goes to die slowly. It’s basically a sensory deprivation tank filled with the subtle aroma of regret and three-year-old copies of Highlights. Normally, I spend that time composing my own dramatic monologue and Googling worst-case scenarios, but this time, my son stole the show.

He launched into a detailed breakdown of this fantasy book series he was obsessed with—the main players, the convoluted plot, and why it was “totally my kind of read.” It was such a beautiful, normal stream of chatter that it reminded me of when he was little, and I’d buy two copies of the same book so we could read and discuss it over dinner.

Under the harsh, fluorescent lights, he was just my kid, alive and enthusiastic. I let him talk, nodding and offering an occasional “Oh, that scoundrel!” but mostly, I was focused on the rhythm beneath his words—paying quiet, desperate attention to every single, non-labored breath he took, like a human heart monitor.

Finally, the doctor delivered the news: asthma.

And in that moment, I swear I heard angels singing. Asthma! Not “spontaneous human combustion” or “needs an exorcism before his 18th birthday.” We walked out with a new prescription for a nebulizer (which sounds like a complicated piece of PVC piping) and a diagnosis that was the best bad news I’ve ever received. We were going to be okay.

We checked out a few hours before my shift started. I was running on pure adrenaline and the emotional wreckage of the past four hours. I debated the ethical dilemma of calling in sick due to “excessive adrenaline, sleep deprivation, and the existential exhaustion of having your child nearly die.” My commute is literally one flight of stairs and a treacherous walk past the snack cabinet, but seriously, even the WFH elite deserve a medical pass.

Then, my son—the little philosopher who nearly sent me into cardiac arrest hours earlier—looked me dead in the eye. He was already prepping himself for a physically draining day on his feet. He used my own weapon against me. He quoted me: “Always be present where you need to be. Give it your absolute best, and if you hit a wall, step back and return to it later.”

It was a powerful reversal. My own motivational speech, delivered back to me by a pale teenager who had just survived a major scare. So, we both showed up: him to his job, and me to my ergonomic chair, armed with coffee and a closer connection with my son.